


Honourable Members

by Emospritelet



Category: Cobra (TV 2019), Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arguing, Blow Jobs, Desk Sex, F/M, Fingerfucking, Office Sex, Politics, Smut, Snark, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Workplace Relationship, oh well, this was supposed to be a one-shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2019-12-18 09:48:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18247388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emospritelet/pseuds/Emospritelet
Summary: When new Member for Parliament Belle French asks the Prime Minister a question, she expects an answer.  Sutherland isn't used to being challenged head-on, and is irritated and fascinated in equal measure.  Workplace snark and UST that leads to smut.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the UK Parliament, but I've created fictional political parties for the purposes of this fic. Sutherland's party, the Democratic Socialists, is centre-left, as is Belle's New Liberal party. The British Unionists, the official Opposition, is centre-right. I've also created fictional Government departmental acronyms, so DII is the Department for Industry and Innovation, DERCA is the Department for Environment, Rural Communities and Agriculture, and DfTI is the Department for Technology and Infrastructure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Robert Carlyle starts filming for a new show, posts precisely two pictures from it, and the fandom collectively loses its shit and scrambles to write Anyelle smut... We all need help.
> 
> Anyway, this was supposed to be a one-shot, but I have this overwhelming need to create backstory and build-up for characters that I want to have sex, so you'll have to suffer with me. I promise they'll bang, though :)
> 
> As Cobra isn't on TV for many months, I've borrowed some of OUAT's characters to make up the PM's staff and other MPs.

If there was one thing Robert Sutherland hated more than any other, it was giving interviews to right-wing lifestyle journalists.  He’d had to suffer through many an indignity in his working life, but relatively little of that life had been under public scrutiny.  He had had what was diplomatically described as an inauspicious start in life, but had developed an interest in politics after becoming a union representative at the factory where he had started work at sixteen.  Coming to Westminster as a backbench MP had opened his eyes to the reality of trying to represent the people he served in a place rife with deep divisions and party infighting.

One of the hardest lessons he had learned was that honesty and integrity did not automatically lead to political success.  A less surprising, if more irritating realisation, was that once you made it to the House of Commons, and especially to the front benches, it was open season on your private life as far as certain sections of the press were concerned.  He thought that it was probably fortunate that he had gotten divorced five years earlier, before becoming leader of his party, but it didn’t stop the speculation about potential love interests. Since leading his party through a successful election campaign, ousting the British Unionists from power in a crushing victory and entering 10 Downing Street, the interest from the press had only grown, and with it the amount of salacious gossip that he tried hard to ignore.

He supposed it was hardly surprising; he had been single since the divorce and happily so, but a vacuum always tempted people to fill it with their own rumours.  His Principal Private Secretary, Carrie de Ville, had assured him that giving interviews to publications such as _Green Space_ would improve his polling amongst right-wing middle class women, but he was beginning to wonder if the current discomfort he felt was worth it.

The current subject of his disdain, Ms Tamara Finlay-Warburton, was perched on a chair in the White State Drawing Room, a porcelain cup of tea steaming in its saucer on the table beside her.  The red-haired woman had been servile to the point of revulsion, but there was a predatory gleam in her blue eyes that told him she was in no way to be trusted.  10 Downing Street’s resident cat, Arthur, had taken one look at her and scurried off, and he considered that a black mark against her character before she had even opened her mouth.

“So,” purred Ms Finlay-Warburton, tapping her pencil on her notebook.  “Still unmarried, after all these years. It must get lonely, having no one to share your success with.”

“Can’t say I’ve thought about it,” he said.  “A little too busy with matters of state.”

“So there’s no special someone?” she pressed.  “No dirty little secrets? We’re all aware of how _indispensable_ your secretary is.”

“Yes, Carrie is my right hand woman,” he said honestly.

“So there’s no sexual tension there?”

He blinked at that.

“Uh - no,” he said.  “Our relationship is very professional.”

“But so many relationships start in the workplace, don’t they?”

“That may be true,” he said, feeling his irritation grow.  “But she’s already married.”

“Well, it’s not as though _that’s_ a barrier to anyone these days,” she said airily.  “You can imagine the opportunities for gossip, I’m sure.”

“Did you do _any_ research before this interview?” he asked waspishly.  “She’s married to a woman!”

“Oh.”

She looked momentarily stumped, and shuddered delicately, as though Carrie’s private life was somehow distasteful.  It made him dislike her all the more.

“Well, I did a piece on her last year,” she said.  “I must have forgotten that, but then I _was_ concentrating on her time at university.  Quite the wild thing in her youth.”

“I couldn’t care less what she got up to,” he said, reaching for his tea, and counting down the seconds until the allotted fifteen minutes was up.  “She’s extremely competent.”

“So, no sparks flying from _that_ direction,” she said vaguely, scribbling in her notebook.  “Of course, the other rumour is that you’re having an affair with the intern.  Comments?”

Sutherland almost spat out his tea.

_“Alice?”_

She sat forward, pale eyes gleaming.

“Why so surprised?” she purred.  “Pretty young girl, blonde curls, all that energy and innocence of youth.  A little _odd_ , by all accounts, so she probably needs taking under your wing and protecting.  Plus, I hear she’s always pulling your tie straight and dusting your shoulders.  Rather familiar for a mere minion, wouldn’t you say?”

“I can assure you she’d think the idea of the two of us sleeping together both hilarious and revolting,” he said tersely.  “And don’t ever call her a minion in my presence again.”

“Ooh, looks like I touched a nerve,” she said, with a smirk.  “No need to hide your office romance from _me_ , Prime Minister.”

“I’m not,” he snapped.

“And why should my readers believe that?”

“Because I’m a massive lesbian!” announced Alice cheerfully, breezing into the room with a leather folder in her hands and her blonde hair bouncing around her shoulders.  “Going from what you write in that magazine of yours, I’m probably at least partly responsible for the decline of society, but I have to say I’m having a lot of fun with it.”

Ms Finlay-Warburton looked as though she’d bitten something sour, and sat back as Alice leaned over to place the folder in Sutherland’s hand.  Alice grinned and leaned closer, making her shrink almost into the cushions of the chair.

“Oh, don’t worry,” said Alice pleasantly.  “You’re _so_ not my type.  I did put my nasty gay hands all over the biscuits though, so I hope you didn’t eat any.”

Sutherland bit the inside of his cheeks to hide a smile, and she winked at him.

“Carrie said to tell you that the car will be here in a moment, sir,” she said.

“Thank you, Alice.”  He stood, tugging his cuffs straight.  “Ms Finlay-Warburton, you must excuse me. Prime Minister’s Questions, you know.  Ms de Ville will show you out.”

He strode out of the room, wanting to sigh with relief, and made it to the waiting car without incident.  It idled outside Number 10, the engine purring as they waited for Carrie to emerge with his briefcase.  She appeared in less than a minute, sharply-tailored charcoal grey trouser suit and white silk shirt beneath a gleaming bob of blonde hair.  She slid onto the back seat beside him, setting the briefcase between them, and the door thumped shut before the car pulled away. Sutherland slipped the leather folder into the case, and Carrie looked at him with some amusement.

“I hear the interview went well,” she said wryly.  “She seemed not to want to shake my hand, so I can only assume she’s remembered I’m a raging homosexual.”

“I don’t understand why you delight in inviting bigots to interview me.”

“Oh, it’s fun,” she said airily.  “They’re always the easiest to offend.  Besides, it’s a section of society in which you need to improve your polling.  You’re falling down with the ‘traditional family values’ mob.”

“I don’t need the support of intolerant arseholes,” he said sourly.

“Now now,” she chided.  “That’s not the attitude to take.  Their votes are as good as anyone’s.  And not all of them are like Ms Fanny-Wobblebum, I assure you.”

“Bloody gossip-monger!” he grumbled, running a hand through short, greying hair.  “She could have asked about the new policy on free childcare or the money for women’s support services, but instead it’s a bunch of bloody shite about work-based romance!  Are they expecting me to be shagging half my staff?”

“Probably.”

“Well, they’re in for a disappointment.”

“Oh, they’ll just make something up, you know how it goes.”

“They’re welcome to.”  He sat back with a sigh.  “Any idea what’s coming up in PMQs?”

“Other than the usual?” she asked.  “Nothing I’ve heard. We’re as prepared as we can be.”

“Good.”

* * *

The Commons was in excellent voice, the benches filled with MPs, almost all of whom were awake and contributing to the noise.  Sutherland tuned it out, tapping his fingers on the papers in front of him, the crisp white cuffs of his shirt just visible above the sleeves of his black suit.  He knew the contents of his papers by heart, but having them there was useful nonetheless, allowing him to collect his thoughts when necessary. Prime Minister’s Questions was in full swing, and having delivered a ringing endorsement of the government’s economic record in response to a question from his own side, he was waiting for the resulting shouts of derision and braying cheers to die down before the first of the questions from the Opposition back benches.

“Miss Belle French!” bellowed the Speaker.

Sutherland’s brow crinkled for a moment. _French, French.  Ah, of course.  New Liberals.  Just won the by-election in Avonleigh.  Carrie says she’s one to watch._

“Thank you, Mr Speaker.”

He glanced around, trying to see where the voice was coming from.   _There.  God, she’s tiny!_ A young woman was standing in the top right of the rows of benches.  Small and pale, with deep red lips and chestnut hair tied neatly back, she was dressed in a very respectable dark blue dress and jacket.  She was perhaps five feet four, although his guess could be off by an inch or two, depending on how high her heels were. She was also incredibly pretty, but he did his best to ignore that fact.

“Mr Speaker,” she began, “last week in my constituency of Avonleigh, I received some truly shocking news regarding Government contractor Wolsingham plc and its negligent attitude to its waste treatment facility.  It appears that waste material from the production plant bordering my constituency has been leaking out and is in danger of polluting the water supplies used by local farmers.”

A familiar noise rose in the House, a booming chorus of denials from the Government benches, and roars of support from the Opposition.  Sutherland wanted to sigh. Questions about Wolsingham plc were inevitable, he supposed; nothing stayed secret for long in politics, but he had hoped to avoid the issue for a little longer.

“Rumours have also spread,” she went on, “that the company itself is failing and that its assets are being sold off piecemeal while it destroys the land around it!”

The noise had increased to a roar, the odd bleating noise from some of the older politicians, order papers being waved.

“Having - having made some enquiries—” Miss French was having to shout to be heard over the din.  “—I was shocked to discover that not only was Wolsingham plc _fully aware_ of the pollution, but had done - had - had done—”

The clamour from the House had reached a level loud enough to drown her out, and she bit her lip, clearly frustrated.

 _“Order!”_ shouted the Speaker, calming the noise somewhat.  “The Honourable lady must be allowed to put her question!  Which I have every hope she will do very shortly, rather than treat us to a lengthy speech!  Miss French!”

“Thank you, Mr Speaker.”

She was still looking frustrated, and Sutherland sensed that she would abandon the speech, ask her question and be done. _Good._

“My constituents are concerned that special interest groups may be influencing Government policy regarding Wolsingham plc,” she said.  “Particularly in respect of their continued breach of environmental legislation, and the company’s future financial viability. What assurances can the Prime Minister give me to take back to my constituents that their concerns are being addressed?”

Sutherland nodded as he stood up at the despatch box, catching her eye.  She was staring at him with a strange mixture of caution and hope.

“Let me be amongst the first to welcome the Honourable lady to the House,” he said.  “I trust that she will serve her constituents well, and the country as a whole. This Government is - aware - of the reports of which she speaks, and I can assure her that they are being looked into.  A statement will be made in due course.”

He sat down to indicate that he was finished, shuffling the papers in his hands.  Miss French was bouncing on her toes, mouth opening and closing and looking outraged, but the Speaker called another name, and she was forced to sit down, her face like thunder.  Sutherland tried to put her out of his mind as he listened to a question from his own side. A pity she had chosen to raise the bloody subject today, but there it was. No doubt the press would now start digging around, and the whole shit show would be wide open for all to see before they could get everything sewn up. _New MPs.  Always so bloody idealistic._

Once PMQs was over, he gathered his papers, slipping them into his briefcase before stepping away from the despatch box.  There was to be a debate on renewable energy, but he left the Environment Secretary to make the Government’s arguments. Carrie was waiting for him in the lobby, foot tapping impatiently on the stone tiles.  She flicked her hair out of her eyes and arched a brow at him as he left the chamber.

“Well, that was reasonably successful,” she said, taking the briefcase from him and shoving it at one of her assistants as they began walking.  “I thought we might go through the preparations for the President’s visit after your four o’clock.”

“Yes, fine,” he said.  “I believe her wife is coming too?”

“So my counterpart across the pond tells me.”

“Good.  We’ll host them at Chequers, but I’ll leave any decisions on menus and entertainment in your hands.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Prime Minister!”

He wanted to sigh as a clear voice cut across the lobby. _Miss French.  Of course._  He kept walking, shoes ringing on the gleaming tiles.

“Prime Minister, if I might have a word?”

She trotted up beside him, but he didn’t slow his stride.  Carrie looked at her somewhat askance, but said nothing.

“What is it, Miss French?” he asked dismissively.

“My question about Wolsingham plc,” she said, her voice impatient.  “You completely shut me down!”

“No, I gave you an answer,” he said.  “Just not the one you wanted.”

“I told my constituents I would raise the matter with you personally!”

“And so you have,” he said, and turned away from her to Carrie, who was watching him with an amused glint in her eyes.  “Carrie, can we fit Mr Llewellyn in before six, do you think?”

“I could find ten minutes in your diary, sir, no more.  And even that would be a squeeze.”

“Do that, then,” he said.  “If you can get one of your staff to prepare a one-page briefing paper beforehand? I’d rather not go in cold.”

“Consider it done.”

“Thank you.”

They walked on, and Miss French trotted to keep up.

“Prime Minister, might I schedule some time with you to discuss my concerns?” she asked, and he glanced across at her.

“Put your question in writing to Ms de Ville, Miss French, if you’re unhappy with the answer I gave,” he said impatiently.

“It wasn’t an answer!” she retorted.  “It - it was a fudge! You didn’t tell me anything!”

“As I said, put any further requests to my secretary in writing,” he said.

“A _letter_?” she scoffed.  “Should I sign it with a quill pen?  This isn’t the nineteenth century!”

“There are still protocols to follow, as you’re well aware,” he said.  “I’ve already said we will be making a statement in due course, and I have nothing further to add at this time.”

He walked on, the entrance looming in front of him, spring sunshine spreading across the tiles.  He could hear the rapid click of Miss French’s shoes as she sought to keep up with his stride, and rolled his eyes as they stepped out into the warm spring sunlight.  The press pack waited some way beyond, cameras clicking and flashing, reporters waiting with mikes outstretched, and Miss French was still at his heels like an insistent terrier.

“Prime Minister, I really don’t think you understand how worrying this is for my constituents,” she said, a little breathlessly.  “If we could just sit down to discuss the matter, I’m sure we could—”

Sutherland stopped abruptly, spinning on his toes to face her as he finally lost patience.

“Miss French, are you deaf or merely stupid?” he snapped.  “For the last time, I have nothing to say to you regarding Wolsingham plc and this will remain the case until the Government delivers its official statement on the matter!”

She stared at him, strands of chestnut hair buffeted by the wind.  Her eyes were wide and very blue, her cheeks smooth and pale. She had full lips, painted with a deep red lipstick that outlined them perfectly.  They were slightly parted in shock at his outburst, but there was also fire in her eyes, something he recognised well from his own youth, when he had been filled with ideals, with the desire to do good.  It made him feel old and irrelevant. An ancient political dragon, facing a young would-be slayer, Chosen One of the people. Oddly, it also made him want to stand his ground, to roar and belch out flames one last time to protect what he hoarded.  Instead, he tried for a more measured, dismissive approach. The young firebrand was gone, after all, mellowed by the years into the elder statesman.

“Put your concerns in writing,” he said, more calmly.  “Ms de Ville will bring them to my attention as she sees fit.”

Miss French worked her jaw a little.

“I thought at least you might hear me out,” she said.  “I’m aware you were born and raised in a deprived community, you must know how dependent my people are on the land around them, and—”

“I got where I am by knowing how to pick my battles,” he interrupted.  “Something you appear to have no concept of, but which you’ll learn in time, I have no doubt.  If you want to be anything other than a voice in the wilderness, you need to learn how to bend in the wind, follow protocol, and understand that sometimes progress happens in ways you may not always like.”

“I came here to serve my constituents!” she protested, raising her hands and letting them fall.  “To give a voice to those who can’t speak out for themselves, to - to _help_ people!  Not to become part of the problem!”

“Enjoy your time on the back benches, then,” he said, his tone dismissive.  “Spend time in your constituency, and leave the politics to those of us who are in touch with reality.  While you’re listening to tales of woe and patting shoulders and kissing babies, you’ll become increasingly irrelevant.”

She opened her mouth angrily, but he cut her off.

“You’re not part of some Borough Council anymore,” he said scathingly.  “Time to grow up. See the big picture.”

“Don’t patronise me!”

“Don’t act like a child, then.”

She took a step towards him, eyes flashing with the light of challenge.  It was giving him a tiny thrill, a tight ball of fire in his chest that was sending a pulsing trail of heat down to his groin.  No one had dared to get in his face to this extent for years, instead shouting their insults from across the benches or making sly comments about his alleged incompetence to the press.  To have someone go toe-to-toe with him outside the Houses of Parliament was almost exhilarating.

“So, one little push back from a woman, and the misogyny surfaces,” she said, in a flat tone.  “Why am I not surprised?”

“My assessment of your behaviour is based on your inexperience and current attitude, not your gender.”

“And you want to teach me a lesson, is that it, _sir_?”

Oh, his mind did _not_ need to go there!  He yanked it back before his imagination could cause too much mischief.

“I have every confidence that your peers will do that, _Miss French_ ,” he said coldly.  “Do us all an _enormous_ favour and try not to get above yourself in the meantime.”

“If you think you can pat me on the head and shut me up, you’re mistaken!”

He smiled at that, knowing how it would irritate her, and was proven right as her glare intensified.

“Well, I must say this passion is _admirable_ ,” he drawled.  “But ultimately pointless.  Political naivety may play well in whatever backwater constituency you managed to claw your way into, but in Westminster it’ll get you eaten alive.”

“I have no intention of - of letting you _eat_ me!” she snapped.

A faint blush had risen on her cheeks, and he felt an odd lurch in his belly as his active mind helpfully provided an alternative meaning for that phrase.  She was glaring at him, eyes shooting blue sparks, chin raised as though she would bite him.

“Then take my advice,” he said.  “Pick your battles. Fall in line. And wait your bloody turn.”

“So, they got to you, too?” she said bitterly.  “I might have known. I knew there had to be some reason everyone’s lips are sealed.  Wolsingham has his dirty little fingers in every political pie going, it seems to me.”

As fascinating as she was, Sutherland had had enough.  He raised an admonitory finger, leaning in as his eyes bored into hers and she met him stare for stare.

“You’re new here, Miss French,” he growled, his accent thickening.  “So I’m gonna let that one slide. You ever question my integrity again, and you and I are gonna have a problem, understood?”

She swallowed, sudden fear in her eyes.  It was gone almost as quickly as it had come, her jaw tightening as she faced him down.  Really, she was magnificent. There were flashes in the air around them, the click of cameras, and he wanted to groan as he remembered they were in the sights of the entirety of the Westminster press.  At least they were out of reach of any microphones, he supposed. He leaned back, swallowing his anger, and nodded curtly.

“Good day, Miss French.”

He turned on his heel, Carrie side-eyeing him before following him to the car.  Reporters clamoured, questions being fired at him, but he ignored them all, slipping onto the back seat and staring straight ahead as Carrie got in on the other side.  The door closed with a heavy thump, and the sounds of the waiting press were cut off immediately. _Thank God for armour plating._

“Well,” said Carrie, as the car pulled slowly away.  “That was - bracing.”

She sounded highly amused, and he decided to change the subject before she could start teasing him.

“Who’s next?” he asked.

“Lunch first,” she said promptly.  “Then I thought we might go through the Select Committee papers before tomorrow.  And you have a four-thirty with the Chancellor.”

“Fine.”

Sutherland sat back as the car headed for Downing Street, trying to ignore his thumping heart.  Miss French was a mouthy nuisance, to be sure, and he wanted to put her from his mind, but the encounter had made him feel more alive than he had in years.

* * *

The heavy tick of the clock on the wall showed that it was after ten, and Sutherland pinched the bridge of his nose to clear his eyes.  A large tabby cat with white socks was settled comfortably on a pile of discarded papers to his left, purring contentedly. Arthur’s job was supposedly to catch mice, but he seemed to spend most of his time sleeping as far as Sutherland could tell.  He didn’t mind that too much; he liked cats, and it was nice to have a little company in the evenings when he finally stopped working. He scratched Arthur’s ears, receiving a nuzzle in response, and set the final document aside just as Carrie entered.  She had a glass of whisky in one hand, a pile of newspapers in the crook of her arm and a wide grin on her face.

“Well, at least you made the front page.”

She dropped the first editions of the next day’s papers on his desk, startling the cat into a standing position. He lashed his striped tail before settling down again, tucking his feet under as the top newspaper—a copy of _The Sun_ —slithered off the pile into Sutherland’s hands.  A picture took up almost the entire page, a close-up of he and Miss French practically nose to nose, glaring at one another with every ounce of the mutual disdain they could muster.  The headline above, in thick red letters, shouted _GET A ROOM!_

Sutherland groaned under his breath as Carrie chortled, and despite himself he read the opening paragraphs of the drivel masquerading as an article. _Sparks flew this afternoon outside the Houses of Parliament as Avonleigh’s stunning New Liberal MP Belle French went toe-to-toe with the PM!  Petite brunette Belle (29) let Sutherland have it with both barrels! You could cut the sexual tension with a knife, and your_ Sun _reporter wonders how they might break their deadlock outside of a bedroom!  Policy difference or lovers’ tiff? See more on page 2! Pages 4 and 5: Belle French - bombshell or bitch?_

He tossed the paper aside in disgust, and Carrie caught it, grinning at him.

“Now now,” she chided.  “Don’t blame the press for the stories they cover.”

“It’s _The Sun_ ,” he growled.  “One flash of a pretty woman’s legs and they collectively lose their tiny minds.”

“So, you think she’s pretty?”

“Please tell me she didn’t give an interview,” he sighed, ignoring her question.

“Not that I can see,” she said.  “But the two of you made the front of every tabloid there is.  Even pushed the latest horror story about a new Ice Age off page 1 of _The Express_.”

“Wonders will never cease,” he remarked.

“I expect she might use the sudden interest to publicise her concerns over Wolsingham, though.”

“Well, that can’t be helped,” he sighed.  “It’s all gonna come out soon, anyway. However things go.  Did we hear anything from DII?”

“Talks still ongoing with potential administrators.”

He grunted.  Lengthy talks about financial viability never boded well, in his experience.

“You know,” she said thoughtfully, looking the paper over.  “They’re not wrong. You _could_ cut the sexual tension with a knife.”

“Fuck’s sake, Carrie…”

“I’m teasing.”  She rolled up the paper and swatted him with it.  “I’m sure your intentions are completely honourable.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course, _hers_ might not be…”

“Can we leave Miss French out of this?” he snapped.  “Is there any _actual_ news I need to hear?”

“Apparently William Hill’s have slashed the odds on you getting married during this Parliament to seven to one.”

_“Carrie!”_

“Alright, _fine_!” she sighed.  “ _The Guardian_ didn’t mention the spat; however, they _have_ picked up on the precarious position of Wolsingham plc and are starting to put feelers out.  You have a nine o’clock tomorrow with the Minister. There’s a briefing in the folder at the bottom of that pile.”

“Thank you.”

“ _The Telegraph, Independent_ and _Financial Times_ are focusing on the prospective deal with the US, unsurprisingly,” she said.  “I thought we might release the President’s proposed itinerary tomorrow.”

“Yes, fine,” he said absently.  “Are we expecting any protests?”

Carrie snorted, setting down the glass of whisky.

“Since that bigoted, racist disaster was ousted and thrown in jail, public perception of the White House has improved _greatly_.”

“Not wholly surprising,” he remarked, and she nodded.

“A few small groups have requested permission to march,” she said.  “Mainly pacifists, anti-capitalists and anti-pharma, nothing to cause any real disruption.”

“Fine,” he said, pushing the pile of newspapers away and sitting back in his chair.  “Go on, get home. I’m sure Ursula would like to see some of you this week.”

“I’m sure she’d like to see all of me,” she said, with a wink.  “Are you sure? I can stay if you need my input on anything.”

“Go home,” he said firmly.  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.  “Don’t stay up all night.  And try not to let the gutter press give you nightmares, hmm?”

“Would you bugger off before I change my mind?”

She swept out, chuckling, and he sighed, reaching for the glass of whisky she had brought him and sitting back in his chair.  It wouldn’t hurt to take a break. There were some papers he wanted to look through, but nothing that needed his immediate attention.  He sipped at the whisky, enjoying the smooth burn on his tongue, the warmth of good alcohol and the taste of honey, peat and smoke.

The image of Belle French kept swimming to the front of his mind, blue eyes sparking with anger and passion, and he scowled to himself, shoving the memory away.  So what if she had intrigued him? She had all but accused him of impropriety in respect of a Government contractor. The fact that her claim was bollocks was beside the point; she had no business throwing around accusations with the press pack just out of reach.  He recalled that Carrie had caught some of her campaign on a visit to Avonleigh, and had been impressed with the dedication and passion she had seen, but if Miss French was to succeed, she would need to learn to bend a little. She wouldn’t last long in Westminster if she couldn’t rein in her clearly impulsive nature.  Her fellow MPs would soon steer her right.

He shook his head, wondering why he was wasting time thinking about her future.  It wasn’t as though they would be working together, and she was on the Opposition benches, if not in the official party of Opposition, so hardly likely to be looking to him as a potential mentor.  Even if she was, the woman was clearly wet behind the ears and he didn’t have the patience to deal with that level of inexperience. Besides, it was unlikely they would cross paths unless he wished it; as a new back-bencher she had been lucky to get to ask a question at PMQs.  There would be no reason for him to have to endure her impertinence again.

He drank the last of the whisky, putting down the glass with a clunk and making the rare decision to go to bed at a reasonable hour.  Arthur seemed to sense that he was making a move, and stood up, stretching paws in front of him and curling his tail over. Sutherland petted him, pushing back his chair and heading for the door, the cat sauntering in his wake as he prayed for a decent night’s sleep, free of dreams of fiery young blue-eyed goddesses with perfect lips.


	2. Chapter 2

The next few days passed without another encounter with Belle French, and Sutherland was surprised to find that he regretted it.  He caught himself thinking of her at the oddest moments, and told himself firmly that his interest had been sparked by her daring to stand up to him, unlike most of the spineless career politicians he had to deal with.  It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that she was fierce and beautiful and passionate, or that she had delightfully shapely legs, or that she had been just the right height to suit his shorter stature. Nothing whatsoever.

The tabloid press had pursued the idea of the two of them being an item, but he had been pleased to see in the one interview he caught that Miss French had politely but firmly shut down any suggestion of impropriety when asked, and had steered the interviewer towards her concerns over policy.  He was less pleased that her concerns brought further attention to the Wolsingham debacle, but it couldn’t be helped.

Tossing a briefing paper aside, he grinned as he recalled the flash of her eyes, the set of her jaw as she tried to look down her nose at him, the way her chest had heaved in outrage.  The memory dissipated in favour of the more lurid fantasies his mind could conjure up: fantasies in which she was looking up at him from a very different position, his fingers curled in her hair, her eyes half-closed and dark with desire and her lips full and moist...

Sutherland groaned, letting his head thump onto his folded arms, and called himself every word for idiot he could think of.  She was a new MP, she was _far_ too young for him, she wasn’t remotely interested, and he was an old pervert for thinking of her that way.  It was the stress, he decided. A pathetic infatuation brought on by late nights, too little sleep and too much whisky.  Clearly he needed more coffee to get through the morning without his mind wandering.

“Look, I know the Wolsingham issue is going to cause an uproar whichever way it goes, but I don’t think things are _quite_ that desperate,” remarked Carrie, making him lift his head.  She dropped another leather folder of documents in front of him.  “The papers you asked for earlier? Just need your signature.”

He grumbled something, pushing upright and pulling the folder towards him.  He could feel her eyes on him as he opened it up, and he waited for her to say what was clearly on her mind.

“We’ve had responses on the cross-party group for the Borders regeneration strategy,” she said.  “You know you don’t have to chair this yourself, you could leave it to Sir Anthony.”

“I know, but it was a key campaign promise, I’d rather have a little oversight.”

“You can’t oversee everything.”

“Yeah, well, just let me see how this first meeting goes,” he said, a little impatiently.  “If I don’t feel I’m adding anything, Sir Anthony can take over.”

“Very well,” she sighed.  “They can all attend for an initial meeting today, so I’ve rescheduled your three o’clock; the Minister’s coming in tomorrow instead.  Thought we may as well strike while the iron’s hot and today was the best in terms of diary space.”

“Good.”  He ran his eyes over the document in front of him.  “I presume we’ll be in the Cabinet Room. How many are we talking?”

“Oh, about a dozen, not including you,” she said airily.  “Representatives from DERCA, obviously, along with DII, and I thought DfTI would want in on the act.  Plus MPs from the other major parties.”

“Who’s in that group?” he asked absently, signing the papers with a flourish.

“Bit of a mixed bag,” she mused, taking them from him and indicating another document.  “Baron Samdi…”

“Hardly a surprise, it’s his constituency that’ll be one of the most affected.”

“Victoria Belfrey and Fiona Black…”

Sutherland grumbled under his breath, reading over the document in his hands a second time.

“They’ll both disagree with anything I say just to be bloody-minded.  Anyone on our side in this?”

“Well, there’s Sir David,” she said.  “Not saying he’ll be one hundred percent behind the scheme, but he’s fair. Press the point home about the extra money for farmers in the area and you’ll win him over.”

He looked up then, frowning.

“You’re holding out on me,” he said suspiciously.  “Who else?”

She rolled her eyes, putting fists on hips.

“Can’t I have _any_ surprises?”

“I hate surprises,” he said.  “Come on, spit it out.”

“Belle French.”

 _“What?”_ He stared at her in outrage.  “She hasn’t even been in post three weeks!  How the hell did she swing that?”

“Well, you know what Sir Anthony’s like,” she said.  “If I were her, I’d have batted my eyelashes and paid him a compliment and watched as he bent over backwards trying to keep me happy in the vain hope of getting a shag out of it.”

Sutherland shot her a flat look.

“Are you telling me this is a habit with you?”

“Oh, I didn’t bother doing it to you,” she assured him.  “Waste of time.”

“I’m not sure whether to be relieved or offended.”

“Well, you didn’t need convincing when it came to my competence,” she said.  “Besides, I’m just saying what _I_ would do if _I_ were her.  I’m sure she has far too much integrity than to try that one.”

“I’m sure.”

“Which is a good thing, because _that_ randy old goat has no integrity whatsoever…”

“Carrie, could we talk about something other than Miss French’s potential conquests?” he asked impatiently, and she smirked.

“If you insist.”

“I do.”

“Do you want me to attend the meeting?” she asked, and he grinned at her.

“Of course,” he said.  “Who else is gonna keep me in line?”

Carrie sniffed, gathering up the signed documents.

“Well, perhaps _one_ person springs to mind…”

* * *

The committee meeting was a disaster.

It had started out well enough; there was general agreement about the level of deprivation in the Borders area and the need for long-term investment and improved transportation.  Sutherland had laid out the preliminary findings of a Government consultation on proposals for regeneration, and it was then that things had started to fall apart. Looking back he supposed it was inevitable; different departments had different priorities, and the opposing parties had staked out their own positions depending on their manifesto commitments, but he had hoped they could arrive at something resembling a way forward.  Baron Samdi: handsome, erudite, and eager to deliver for his voters, was inclined to support the Government's preferred option, but Sir Anthony Challoner: balding, earnest-looking, and resistant to change, was opposed to anything too ambitious.  It made him want to grind his teeth.  Fiona Black and Victoria Belfrey, members of the Opposition and long-time thorns in his side, had teamed up to attack not only the scheme itself, but also any attempt he made to find consensus on the proposals. And then there was Belle French.

“Well, personally I think the fifth proposal goes some way towards what we need to achieve in the area,” she said, looking around the table after the latest heated exchange had died down.  “But it doesn’t go far enough.”

“That proposal is already absurdly expensive!” protested Victoria Belfrey, glaring at her.  “My party _certainly_ can’t support such a wasteful use of taxpayers’ money!”

“I trust you’re not saying that any investment in my constituency is a waste, Victoria,” said Samdi, shooting her a flat look, and she rolled her eyes.

“Of course not, just - I think we need to be realistic here.”

“I’m not proposing we move ahead with proposal five, I’m proposing we look at something else entirely,” said Miss French eagerly.  “One of the constituencies covered by the scheme borders my own, and I know from talking to my own people what the needs in the area are.”

“Which is presumably why you’ve been given a place at this table,” said Sutherland, sounding far calmer than he felt.  “Opinion has already been canvassed. Proposal five is as radical as the Government is prepared to be, I assure you, Miss French.  Please note our responses as set out in section four of your bundle. Proposal three is the preferred option.”

“But if you just—”

“The consultation is over,” he interrupted.  “This committee hasn’t been formed to come up with proposals, but to discuss those already put forward and agree on a cross-party strategy.”

She seemed to struggle a little, her mouth working, but then reluctantly shrugged acceptance.  His eyes narrowed at the rapid capitulation; he suspected she wouldn’t let the issue drop entirely, and was proven right ten minutes later when she piped up again.

“If we follow option three, how can we be certain that the contractors will get the infrastructure done on time and to budget?” she asked.  “I still think we could go further than what’s being proposed.”

“Preliminary costings and time estimates have already been provided by Wolsingham plc,” said Samdi, waving one of the papers.  Miss French turned to Sutherland with an outraged look on her face.

“You’re going with _Wolsingham_?”

“They are a Government contractor,” he said blandly.  “It seemed reasonable to let them give us an estimate, at least.”

“But - but everything we spoke about the other day!” she protested.  “I wasn’t making it up! Sir Cyril Wolsingham is known for ripping off subcontractors and employees!  We can’t _possibly_ consider his firm for this!”

“You know, when last I looked, it was _my_ Government that entered into contracts,” he said, his voice cold.

“No, you’re right,” she agreed, in a wry tone.  “It’s definitely not the place of this committee to tell you how to do your job.”

“Well, thank you for that concession, I’m sure,” he remarked.

“Perhaps it’s one of those things that gets sewn up on the golf course or over a glass of something in the clubhouse afterwards.”

“Do I look like I play fucking golf?” he snapped.

Seated at his left, Carrie cleared her throat, a familiar warning that he chose not to heed.  Miss French managed to look down her nose at him, not in the least intimidated, and Fiona Black sucked in her cheeks, pursing her lips and exchanging a knowing look with Ms Belfrey.  It did nothing to improve his temper.

“The estimate was for the purpose of initial costings only,” he said, hating that he sounded defensive.  “The scheme will be put out to tender when we make a decision on how we want to proceed.”

“Well, I really think we should talk about the potential contractors, given Wolsingham’s reputation for dodgy dealings—”

“How about we do that once we’ve chosen a bloody way forward?” he snapped.  “It’s all very well to fight the good fight, Miss French, but you can’t do so on all fronts.”

She glared at him.

“And if you give up the fight entirely, what then?” she demanded.

“Well, sometimes a battle must be lost in order to win the war itself.”

“Easy to say for the king in his castle with nothing to lose!”

His eyes narrowed, mouth flattening in irritation.

“Be careful, Miss French,” he warned.  “You’re currently here against my better judgement, but I can easily find someone else from the New Liberal party who’ll be every bit as competent while keeping a civil tongue in their head.”

"Fine," she said stiffly.  "As you say, nothing's been decided yet."

"Thank you."

"And I suppose with election year looming in the not-too-distant future, you're reluctant to take any risks or lose any friends."

"Miss French, so help me..." he growled.

"Perhaps we could get back to the proposals?" said Samdi, his voice smooth and calming.  "I definitely think we can rule out options one and two."

"Not so fast," said Victoria.  "Let's at least  _consider_ option one."

"'Do nothing' is not gonna happen, Victoria, and you bloody know it!" snapped Sutherland.  "I campaigned on this fucking thing, and I'll deliver it with or without your input!"

Miss French leaned forward, the light of fervour in her blue eyes which made him want to groan.

"Prime Minister, I understand you have a lot of conflicting priorities to consider," she said.  "But I really think we have an opportunity here.  An opportunity to make a real difference to the lives of people in the north of England, to increase trade and improve infrastructure!  Isn't that what we're all here for?"

Victoria and Fiona shared a grimace, and Sutherland wanted to sigh.

"No one's denying that we're here for the common good, Miss French—”

"Then why can't we talk around some different options other than what's been proposed?"

"Am I speaking a foreign fucking language?" he snapped, slapping the papers in front of him and making Sir Anthony jump.  "A lengthy consultation has been carried out, and before you are the options on the table!  Bloody well pick one!  Or do you want to just sit around fucking talking about it for the next ten years before someone's got the bollocks to make a decision?"

Miss French sniffed.

"Well, I see your reputation for collaborative working is well-earned," she said dryly.

Fiona Black snorted and tried to turn it into a cough.  Sutherland gritted his teeth, and put down his pen very deliberately.

"Miss French, you've been at Parliament a grand total of eighteen days," he said curtly.  "If you're looking to sit in my fucking chair anytime soon, you're in for a disappointment."

She looked a little chastened at that.

“I just meant that—”

“Can we move on, please?” he interrupted.  “I’d like to get this meeting over with before bloody midnight.”

* * *

Ten minutes to nine, and he still had a set of prepared responses to read through and approve and a draft paper to look over.  Sutherland sighed, blinking rapidly to try to concentrate on the words in front of him. It had been a long, frustrating day, and he wanted nothing more than to say _fuck it all_ , pour himself a drink, and slump into one of the comfier chairs in his apartments.  He kept replaying the cross-party meeting in his head, and wishing he had been calmer.  Miss French seemed to be able to push his buttons. Every last one of them.

He closed his eyes as his mind came up with a very different ending to the meeting, one in which he hadn’t lost his temper in another angry exchange with her, in which he hadn’t stormed out without a backward glance, bristling with righteous indignation.  He imagined the other participants leaving he and Miss French alone, their sniping increasing along with their passion until something broke and she kissed him hard and he shoved her up against the wall and—

He closed his eyes, shaking his head. _Ridiculous!  As if she’d kiss you!  She’d fucking slap you, either with a hand or a bloody sexual harassment claim, and you’d fucking deserve both.  Snap out of it, you moron!_

“Well, aren’t _you_ gorgeous?”

A familiar female voice made him look up in confusion.  Miss French was bent over in the doorway, a file in one hand and the other scratching Arthur’s ears.  The plump tabby was gazing up at her adoringly, back arched and tail curled over as he butted his head against her fingers.  Sutherland’s mouth flattened in resigned amusement. _Traitor_.

Miss French was wearing blue again, a slim-fitting dress with a pencil skirt and a V-neck, her pale arms bare. He found that his eyes were following the curves of her hips and waist, and he hurriedly flicked them up above the top of her head just as she straightened up.  Arthur wound around her legs, purring as his tail curled around one pale shin, and she nodded cautiously.

“Prime Minister,” she said, and he sat back, tapping his pen against the paperwork in front of him.

“Miss French,” he said wearily.  “If you’re looking to resume our fight, it’s a little late.”

“No, that wasn’t—”  She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath before opening them again.  “I was talking to Sir Anthony, and he said he had some documents to hand to you regarding Monday’s Select Committee hearing, so I - I said I’d bring them over.”

She held up the file, and at his nod, stepped forward and placed it on his desk.

“You could have just left them with Carrie,” he said.

“I know.”

“In fact, I’m impressed that you managed to get past her.”

“I kind of waited until she went to the ladies’ room, and then sneaked in,” she said, having the grace to look a little guilty.  She was tugging at her lower lip with her teeth, and it was rather distracting. He shook his head.

“Yes, well,” he said.  “It’s late, and I have things to do, so if you wouldn’t mind…”

“I - I just wanted to apologise,” she said hurriedly.  “I was out of line. You were right to call me on it.”

“Oh, I know that,” he said dryly, turning the pen between his finger and thumb.  “But I appreciate the sentiment."

"You were right to say that we need to make a decision on one of the options, as well," she said.  "I'm not sure we can find a consensus on option five, but three might be possible."

"Well, I'm glad you're committed to working towards a solution," he said.  "However, I think I should warn you that if you continue to talk over others on the committee and to push your opinions as fact, you’ll soon find yourself out on your arse.”

She stepped closer to the desk, leaning on it with both hands, her chestnut hair swinging forward, gleaming copper in the light.  The angle of her body gave him an excellent view down the front of her dress, and a glimpse of the lacy edge of her bra. He tried to keep his eyes on hers, cursing himself for a bloody fool.

“Look, I know you think I’m naive,” she said earnestly.  “But I’m not an idiot. I’m right about Wolsingham!”

“I’m sure you think so.”

“I know how Sir Cyril works!” she insisted, straightening up again.  “He’s nothing but a conman and a thug! He duped my father into investing in his business decades ago!  Fed him a bunch of bullshit about contracts that turned out to be non-existent, and by the time Dad realised he’d been screwed over, he couldn’t afford to bring the case to court.  Dad lost everything!”

Sutherland wanted to sigh.   _A family history of animosity with a major contractor, and she chooses_ now _to bring it up?  Perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect._

“So.”  He closed the file in front of him.  “You have an interest in this matter?”

“Well, _obviously_!”

“Then, even more obviously, it’s not appropriate that you should have any involvement in the regeneration strategy.”

_“What?”_

“You heard me.”

She opened and closed her mouth, her eyes wide.

“You can’t be serious!”

“On the contrary,” he said coldly.  “I’m very serious.”

“But—”

“Do you deny that you have highly negative opinions about the intentions and reputation of one of the board members of Wolsingham plc, a potential contractor?”

“I—”  She struggled visibly.  “I - well, no, I can’t deny that, I suppose.”

“Then there’s no more to be said.”  He pulled a document towards himself.  “I thank you for bringing this conflict of interest to my attention, and for your honesty in revealing your father’s prior dealings with the firm. I’ll expect the Shadow Environment Secretary to name a replacement within due course. Ms de Ville will show you out. Good evening to you.”

Having dismissed her, he dropped his eyes, reading the paper in front of him.  He could almost _feel_ her frustration, a pressure in the air around him, as though a whistle was being blown that was pitched a little too high for him to hear.  He sighed, scrawling his signature at the bottom of the document and setting it aside.

“Miss French, you clearly have something you’re almost bursting to tell me, so let’s hear it.”

“I - I just think it’s unfair to throw me off this committee because of my opinion of _one aspect_ of the regeneration!”

Sutherland’s head jerked up.

 _“Unfair?”_ he snapped.  “What are you, fucking five?”

She opened her mouth, looking furious, and the door opened behind her, Carrie looking at first puzzled and then cautious.

“I - I was about to go home, sir,” she said.  “I wasn’t aware that you had an appointment.”

“I didn’t,” he said curtly.  “Miss French was just leaving.”

“No I wasn’t.”

Carrie’s eyebrows shot up as her eyes flicked to him, and Sutherland slumped in his seat a little, letting out a rumbling sigh.

“Carrie, go on, go home,” he said wearily.  “Give my regards to your lovely wife. I’m sure she’d like to have dinner with you for once.”

“If you’re sure, sir.”

Miss French had gone very still, as though she thought he would forget she was there, and Sutherland jerked his head towards her.

“I can always get Special Branch to toss her out, can’t I?” he said, and Carrie smirked.

“I’ll say goodnight then, sir.”

She eyed Belle one last time, with a look in her eye as though she had a dozen questions she wanted to ask, but thought better of it.  The door closed behind her, and Sutherland turned his attention to the woman in front of him. He drummed his fingers on the desk, and made a decision.

“D’you want a drink?” he asked bluntly.

It was gratifying to throw her off her game.  She blinked at him, suddenly unsure of herself.

“What?”

“A drink,” he said impatiently.  “Whisky, brandy... I might have some gin if Carrie’s left me any.”

“Uh - okay.”  She seemed to rally again.  “I’ll have what you’re having.”

“Whisky, then.”

He pushed back from the desk, going to cabinet which housed the bottles of spirits and selecting two cut crystal glasses.  Whisky poured in a tawny stream, and he turned back to her, holding out a glass. She took it from his hands.

“Thank you.”

He sat back down in his chair, the cushioned leather squeaking a little as he sat down, and took a sip of his drink as he met her eyes.

“So,” he said.  “You’ve been an MP for barely three weeks and you’ve already managed to get on my tits.  I don’t know whether to be impressed or pissed off.”

“Well, at least you’ll remember me,” she said, with a tiny grin.

“For all the wrong reasons, maybe.”

“I assure you there are a lot of excellent reasons too,” she said.  “I realise we may have got off on the wrong foot, but there’s no reason we can’t work together, is there?”

“Of course not,” he said, and she smiled.  “But we won’t be working on this committee.”

Her brows drew down at that.

“Prime Minister, if I may, I really think I can bring something to the table—”

“No doubt,” he interjected.  “But I can’t have you on the committee for this particular project, Miss French. I’m sorry, but that’s my final word on the matter.”

She sighed, shrugging in a defeated manner, and took a drink, her eyes on the floor.  Her head bobbed up almost immediately.

“Will you promise to put me at the top of the list for the next cross-party committee you oversee, then?”

“Fuck's sake!”  He scowled at her.  “You don’t give up, do you?”

“Not usually.”

“I don’t even know when the next committee will be, or the subject matter,” he snapped.  “I’m certainly not about to agree to put your name on the list on a fucking whim!”

She merely smiled at his aggressive tone, taking a sip of her drink as she eyed him.  She didn’t seem remotely intimidated by him, and it was annoyingly alluring.

“Well, if you can spare ten minutes, I can show you why I’d be an excellent addition to any team you may want to put together,” she said airily.

“I see.”  His eyes narrowed.  “A first class PPE degree from Oxbridge, a head stuffed full of idealistic nonsense, and suddenly you’re a bloody expert, are you?”

“So.”  She looked satisfied.  “You read up on me.”

“No,” he said truthfully.  “I just know what cloth the new breed of politicians is cut from, that’s all.  I know there’s a path to be taken, a set of milestones to be reached, and it has nothing to do with understanding what the majority of working class people go through in this country.  Picking a political party is all about what colour tie suits, for a lot of you.”

“That’s remarkably cynical,” she said flatly, and he shrugged, taking a sip of whisky.

“Goes with the territory.”

“I read about _you_ ,” she said.

“I’d be astonished if you hadn’t,” he said.  “It’s all true. Even the bad stuff. Actually, especially the bad stuff.”

“Left school at sixteen, no qualifications, worked your way up from the shop floor in the shipyards,” she went on.  “Quite the firebrand as a union rep, by all accounts.”

Her focus on his background, his lack of qualifications, made him bristle, even as he told himself for the thousandth time not to let his lack of formal education bother him.

“Is there something wrong with that?”

“Of course not,” she said.  “But given that you’ve reached the highest office in the land, it might be time to get past the chip on your shoulder.  The fact that some have a more privileged upbringing than others doesn’t make their contributions worthless or their intentions less honourable.”

He kept his face smooth, but inwardly he was quivering with outrage.  She may have been right, and it may have been something he told himself regularly, but he didn’t appreciate hearing it.

“I’m not ashamed to call out inequalities when I see them,” he said evenly.

“Then maybe you can understand the reasons for _my_ passion,” she countered, and he tilted his head.

“Oh, I do,” he agreed.  “I also know what this place is like, Miss French.  You can’t get your way all the time. Public service is about compromise.  Something you’ll learn in time, I have no doubt.”

“The greater good?” she said sardonically.  “Yeah, that always ends well…”

“Like I said.”  He took another sip.  “Pick your battles.”

She took a sip of her own drink, eyeing him over the rim of her glass.

“Well, since you were kind enough to offer me some of your whisky,” she said.  “Perhaps I’ll take your advice.”

“Good.”

“At least for tonight.”

He smiled briefly, and some of the tension left the air.

“Why politics, anyway?” he said, gesturing with his glass, the whisky sloshing inside it.  “Surely you could make better money with better hours doing something else?”

“Do you do this for the money, then?”

“You must be fucking joking.”

“Then why would you assume I would?”

It was a fair point, but he stared at her unblinking, wanting a reply to his original question.  After a moment she sighed, setting down her glass.

“I wanted to do some good,” she said simply.  “Thought I could do more from this place. Couldn’t do much worse than my predecessor.”

“I always find that a bar being set low only invites people to try to go under it, but fair enough.”

“There’s that cynicism again.”

He glanced away to hide a smile, and took another sip of his drink.

“How did you manage to swing the place on the committee, anyway?” he asked, and she shrugged.

“Sweet-talked Sir Anthony, how’d you think?”

“I think,” he said, “that Sir Anthony is a fool if he underestimates you.”

“Well, I won’t tell him if you won’t.”

He grinned at that.

“And other than picking a fight with me, how did you find your first meeting?” he said.  “What you expected?”

“More or less,” she said.  “You know what they say, know your enemy.”

“Are we enemies?”

“I hope not.”  She took a drink.  “We both have similar goals, after all.  We’re just on slightly different sides.”

“Perhaps adjacent rather than opposite, then,” he suggested.

She had pursed her lips a little, an amused glint in her eyes.

“You know the press thinks we’re having a passionate affair, right?”

“So I heard,” he grumbled.  “I’m sorry about that.”

She giggled, eyes sparkling.

“Oh, I don’t mind,” she said.  “Considering the other men I spend my days with, it could definitely be worse. At least you’re actually my type.”

He almost choked on his whisky at that, and tried to keep a straight face while his eyes watered.

“I’m just hoping no embarrassing pictures from my university days surface while they’re raking around in my private life,” she went on, seemingly oblivious.  “I suppose you’re used to it by now.”

“A single man is a rare thing in this job,” he said.  “Tends to invite speculation. No doubt you can wheel out some large and manly boyfriend to prove them wrong.”

“I’m afraid not,” she said.  “It’s just me and the cats. You’ll have to put up with the gossip.”

“Fuck ‘em, I don’t care what they say.”  He took another drink. “You have cats?”

“Two,” she said.  “They’re called Fifi and Fudge.”

“Well, that’s Arthur,” he said, nodding to the tabby, who had jumped onto one of the chairs and was watching them placidly with jade-green eyes.

“He’s _gorgeous_.”

“Aye, and he bloody well knows it.”

She smiled, turning a little and sitting on the edge of his desk.  It made his eyebrows climb, but he said nothing. It seemed rude to make her look over her shoulder at him, so he got up, pacing the room with his glass in his hand, listening to the low tick of the clock and feeling her eyes on his back.  When he turned to face her, she had gotten a better seat on the desk, knees crossed, her legs long and pale and perfect. Her lips were parted, full and moist, and for a brief, insane moment he wondered how it would feel to kiss her. He felt a tug low-down in his groin, and took a drink in a bid to ignore it, relishing the mellow heat of the whisky in his mouth.

“How are you finding being an MP?” he asked almost desperately, hoping the innocuous question would get his mind out of the gutter.

“Hard work so far,” she admitted.  “And living in London is - very different. I enjoy the work, but it’s still a relief to get back to the country.”

“Aye, I can understand that,” he said, with a nod.  “You can lose perspective, being here too much of the time. It’s good to ground yourself every now and then.”

“There’s a reason they call it the Westminster bubble, I guess.”

“I guess so.”

Silence.  He watched as she finished her drink.   _Good.  She’ll go._

“Another?” he heard himself say, and could imagine the sensible part of his brain making an incredulous gesture.  She held up her glass.

“Oh, go on, then,” she sighed, a tiny smile curving that perfect mouth.

He finished his own, and stepped forward to take the glass from her.  Their fingers brushed, a swift rush of pleasure making him shiver, and she licked her lips as she glanced at him.  His heart was thumping hard, the perfume she wore drifting into his nose, and he was finding it hard to breathe.

“It appears I’m very easily led astray,” she said, holding his gaze.  “Tongues will wag.”

“Everyone in this place knows how to keep their mouth shut, I assure you.”

He wanted to wince as he turned to the whisky bottle.  Why the hell had he said that? It wasn’t as though he was contemplating - no, best not to let his mind go there.

“Well, I imagine secrets are a part of life, at your level,” she observed.

“Sometimes it’s necessary.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

It felt as though they were talking in code, each fully aware of what the other was saying but choosing not to acknowledge it openly.  He told himself he was creating a ridiculous fantasy in his mind, and poured two small measures of whisky, his hand shaking slightly.

“Do you live far from here?” he asked, hoping that his mind would find something to latch onto other than how lovely she was, how good she smelled and how much he wanted to kiss her.

“Not too far.  I just moved into a place in Battersea.  Far cheaper than the city, and easy enough on the Tube.”

“Well, I could have one of the cars take you home,” he said.  “It’s no problem.”

“Are you going to let me drink that whisky first?”

He turned, carrying it over to her, and she took the glass from him, swinging her legs a little.  At that height, she was at just the right position to kiss, and he licked his lips, imagining how it might feel to have his mouth on hers, to taste her on his tongue.  How good it would feel to slide her skirt up to her waist and expose all of those perfect legs, to put his hands on her thighs and push them apart and press himself against her.  His cock twitched, and he bit the inside of his cheeks, hard. She eyed him over the rim of her glass as she sipped at the whisky, her eyes wide and clear and beautiful.

“I do have chairs, you know,” he remarked, and she shook back her hair.

“Does it bother you that I’m sitting on your desk?”

“No.”   _No, it doesn’t bother me.  ‘Bother’ isn’t the word I’d use._

“In that case, I’m fine.”

Silence.  The clock ticked.  Arthur stood up with a _prrp_ noise, turned around and curled up again.

“So,” he said, wishing she’d drink faster.  “You got elected. Now what?”

“Now I fight for my people,” she said simply.  “If you want to meet to talk about how that might be achieved, my diary is open.”

She shifted position a little, uncrossing her legs, and he felt his pulse increase, the blood pounding in his throat.

“Well, mine certainly isn’t,” he said truthfully.  “But that’s not to say your concerns and priorities won’t be addressed.”

“Good.”  She took a sip of her drink.  “I’ll put them in writing then, shall I?  Like a good girl.”

“Please do.”  He elected to ignore the dry tone of voice she used.  Protocol was protocol, after all.  He dimly recalled finding it just as much of a pain in the arse when he himself was first elected.  “What are your ambitions?”

“Well, Shadow Cabinet within two years, for a start.”

“Unlikely, given your party’s numbers,” he remarked.  “I know we’re not technically a two-party system but we may as well be.”

“For now,” she acknowledged.  “But these things aren’t set in stone.”

“So, you’re hoping for a future coalition?”

She smiled at that, a tiny, secretive smile.

“I'm keeping my options open.”

More silence.  Sutherland took a larger drink of whisky than he had intended, coughing slightly, and Miss French sipped her own, eyes flicking around the room.

“I know you’re disappointed about being thrown off the committee,” he said.  “But I have to be seen to be impartial. Any whiff of prior interests—negative or positive—and the press would be all over me like a fucking rash. I’m sure you can understand that.”

“I do,” she admitted.  “But if you ever want to discuss things off the record, I’d be more than happy to help.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“And make sure you keep me in mind for anything else that may need cross-party input,” she added.

His mouth flattened, but he raised his glass.

“You’re tenacious, Miss French,” he said.  “I’ll give you that.”

“When I see something I want, I go for it,” she said.

There was a moment of silence, a moment in which she met his eyes with a steady gaze.  It gave him a flutter of nerves in his belly, made his mouth dry, and he licked his lips.   _Fuck’s sake, man, get your mind out of the gutter, that’s not what she meant!_

“You - uh - want me to call you that car?” he asked.

“I’ll take the Tube,” she said, with a shrug.  “It’s not too late.”

Another look, her eyes flicking over him.  His heart was thumping, and he threw back the remains of the whisky.

“Well,” he said, his voice a little hoarse.  “If you’re done with your drink, I’ll say goodnight.”

“For now,” she said.  “You haven’t seen the last of me, Prime Minister.”

“I’d be disappointed if I had,” he said, in a dry tone.

She grinned, draining her glass and setting it down with a clink before she slipped from the desk.

“Goodnight, sir,” she said, and walked out, her hips swaying enticingly.

Sutherland waited until she had closed the door behind her, and sagged a little, letting out a breath that seemed to be all that had kept him upright.  He glanced across at Arthur, who blinked at him contentedly.

“Well,” he said.  “It appears I’m in fucking trouble.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I knew we'd get spoilers for this show before I could finish this darn fic which would blow holes in my guesswork characterisation, but I had a choice of Sutherland being left-leaning or right-leaning and according to the spoilers I chose wrong *shrugs*. However, in my defence Scottish Tories are rarer than hens' teeth so it was an educated guess.
> 
> Anyway I don't care because I got them laid *throws snark and smut at you all*

Sutherland was pacing his office.

It was an excellent room for pacing, he had discovered.  The rug was thick enough to cushion his steps to silence, but not so thick that his shoes caught on the pile when he turned.  Pacing was a habit of his, usually when he was irritated or had something that required a lot of thinking time. Right now, however, his brain was concentrating on very little other than burning off the nervous energy that had been produced by a long night and too much coffee.

The prospective administrator of Wolsingham plc had finally backed out, restructuring talks had broken down, and the Government’s largest private contractor was being put into liquidation by its creditors, of which the biggest by far was the Government itself.  It meant that infrastructure projects would be on hold unless a new contractor could be found to take them over, and there would inevitably be widespread job losses, for which his administration would be blamed. However misplaced that blame might be.

Since receiving the late-night call from the Minister of the Department of Industry and Innovation, a call which he had dreaded but which wasn’t wholly unexpected, he had been up and working.  He had approved the statement regarding the Wolsingham fiasco and sent it out to all MPs around half an hour before it was released to the press, at around seven o’clock that morning. The Minister had appeared on _Today_ to explain the Government’s position, but given what was already leaking out from the company itself following the announcement, it was more a case of damage control than reassurance.  Inside sources at the company, mouths firmly shut throughout its trading, were now telling anyone who would listen lurid tales about the rampant misconduct in the higher levels of the firm, and each new revelation made Sutherland want to wring the neck of each and every board member.

It was now almost midday, Parliament was in session and he was due to attend in an hour to give a statement. Passing his desk, he snatched up the remote control for the wall-mounted television and switched it on. The familiar green benches of the Commons flashed into view, already half-full of MPs gathered for the day’s business.  The Speaker called on Belle French, who stood up and raised her chin, and Sutherland’s eyes narrowed at the determined look on her face. _Here we go._  

“Mr Speaker, having received notification of the impending liquidation of Wolsingham plc this morning, I was _appalled_ to discover the level of mismanagement and corruption that appears to have been going on!” she began.

“You didn’t bloody discover it,” muttered Sutherland.  “Somebody with a bloody axe to grind released the information.”

“I have received intelligence from credible internal sources at the company providing evidence of the most shocking misuse of public funds!  Evidence that the Government appears not to have acted upon!”

“Well, we’ve only just received it ourselves, give us a bloody chance.”

“Undercutting, loss-leading, _deliberately_ pitching bids at levels they _knew_ could not be delivered, then leaving the taxpayer to foot the increased costs when those projects foundered!”

“None of which you would know about if we hadn’t appointed a provisional liquidator!” said Sutherland, more loudly, as though she could hear him.

“Not to mention, Mr Speaker, the atrocious way in which this company has treated the weakest in our society.”  Miss French was on a roll. “Thousands of jobs at risk, hundreds of small businesses going without payment! This is blatant incompetence on a national scale, and the Government needs to be held accountable!”

“Oh, right, and the fact that we were tied into those fucking contracts by the last administration for the next five fucking years is lost on you, is it?”

Miss French stared out across the Commons, eyes flashing blue fire, perfect lips slightly parted as her hands gripped the notes in front of her.

“Moreover, Mr Speaker,” she added.  “Is this latest debacle not indicative of this Government’s utter contempt for the people it serves?  The failure to take seriously the mounting complaints about the small businesses and employees, suffering under the yoke of Wolsingham for years!  The _slew_ of queries from local people that I and other Honourable Members have received and have raised with Government Ministers, only to be brushed off and sacrificed on the altar of _progress_!  A form of progress, Mr Speaker, that appears to be for a select few on the boards of these firms, and their shareholders!”

“Right, well, we’ll just nationalise everything, shall we?  Should be the work of moments...”

“This country needs fresh ideas and a fresh perspective,” she went on.  “The Democratic Socialists are the party of the twentieth century: a tired, worn out relic of the past run by tired, worn out men.”

_“Bloody cheek!”_

“It’s little wonder the Prime Minister spends so much time hidden away in Downing Street,” she said, seemingly uplifted by the chorus of jeers around her.  “I’d be ashamed to face the nation if I were him! Presiding over those who have shown such blatant disregard for the people they were put in power to serve!”

“Can you believe this _shite_?” Sutherland demanded of no one in particular, gesturing at the television.

There was a rattle behind him, and he glanced around, to see Alice carrying in a tea tray.  He quickly cleared some papers on his desk so she could put it down, and turned back to the television, folding his arms.  Miss French stared out at him, proud and fierce as a warrior, her jaw set and her head high.

“Mr Speaker,” she said.  “The House demands that an urgent inquiry be held into the collapse of this firm and all who were involved in this alleged malpractice!  In the meantime, I call upon the Minister for Industry and Innovation and the Prime Minister himself to immediately make themselves available to this House for questioning on this most heinous of matters!”

_“I’m attending in an hour for that purpose, and you fucking know it!”_

He glared at the screen, but Miss French had sat down to a mingled chorus of cheers and heckling, and the Speaker called on another Member.  Sutherland turned off the television in disgust.

“What the hell do they bloody expect when we got the information only a few hours before them?” he demanded.  “I swear they want me to perform fucking miracles and then act all disillusioned when I don’t!”

“Seems to me like she’s already fighting the next election a year in advance,” remarked Alice, with a twinkle in her eye.  “Try not to take it personally, sir. Coffee?”

He grumbled at that, but accepted a cup of coffee from her.

“Anything I need to hear about before I go over there?”

“The Press Office sent through a list of potential TV and radio programmes that have requested an interview,” she said.  “Carrie’s handling it, she says she’ll catch you up after you’ve been to the House.”

“Fine.”  He slumped into the chair and let his head roll back with a sigh.  “God, I’m tired. If I have much more caffeine my head’ll explode.”

“I could make you some decaf if you want.”

“No,” he grumbled.  “If I tried to drink decaf I think my nervous system would be in open rebellion.”

“Have a biscuit instead, then,” she suggested.  “Chocolate Hobnobs. I picked them out specially.”

“Sometimes I think you and Arthur are the only ones that care about me.”

“You know perfectly well that Arthur’s a greedy attention-whore and doesn’t give a shit about anyone as long as he gets fed and snuggled,” she said, with a grin.  “Mine is the only true loyalty around here.”

He chuckled, and sat forward, reaching for a biscuit.  Alice dropped a folder of documents on top of the pile already on his desk, and he ignored it in favour of dipping his biscuit in the coffee before sucking off the melted chocolate.

“Can you tell Carrie to come in here when she’s ready?” he said.  “I want to look over the briefing papers again and I could use her input.”

“Sir.”

She went out, and Sutherland ran a hand through his hair, pulling the papers towards himself and trying to take in what was printed there.  He ate the last of the biscuit, hesitated, and then took another, telling himself he could use the energy after pulling an all-nighter. _Tired and worn out my arse!  We’ll see who’s bloody worn out by the end of this!_

* * *

The House of Commons was almost full, MPs clustered together on the benches, staring at him and muttering as he delivered his statement, the odd heckle or roar of approval cutting across the ever-present background noise.  Sutherland ignored them, speaking in clipped tones, laying out the facts and avoiding anything extraneous. He glanced around the chamber as he did so, briefly catching the eye of Belle French, who was staring at him with her mouth twisted and one eyebrow raised, as though she didn’t believe a word he was saying.  It was a little off-putting, and so he looked away again.

“The Minister for Industry and Innovation is in talks with other members of the cabinet and with major stakeholders at this moment,” he said, drawing to a close.  “I’m expecting an update from him in the next few hours, and this Government will keep Honourable Members briefed accordingly. I have every confidence that the Civil Service will act with its usual expertise and professionalism to make the process as painless as possible for all those affected.”

He sat down, mentally readying himself for a grilling, and the Speaker shouted to be heard above the din.

 _“Order!”_ he bellowed.  “There’s a little time remaining for questions, but if you all get over-excited and shout over one another, it’s going to prove difficult for the Prime Minister to answer!  Mr Baron Samdi!”

“Thank you, Mr Speaker.” Samdi stood, suave and immaculate, straightening the cuffs of his shirt as he caught Sutherland’s eye.  “What reassurances can the Prime Minister give those of us with constituencies for which Wolsingham is a major employer that there will not be large-scale job losses?”

 _Precious little, at the moment._ Sutherland stood up again.

“The viability of the company’s ongoing contracts and the potential for TUPE to apply to firms willing to take them on is under discussion and will form part of the Minister’s initial report,” he said, and sat down abruptly.

“Miss Belle French!”

 _For fuck’s sake, she gets to ask a question again?  Wouldn’t be surprised if he bloody fancies her, the old bastard!_  Sutherland scowled to himself, but tried to smooth his expression as Miss French stood.

“Thank you, Mr Speaker,” she said.  “There have been rumours circulating about the directors of this firm and potential misconduct in the handling of the firm’s finances and in the running of its business.  Misconduct, Mr Speaker, that touches the lives of millions of taxpayers and service users. Misconduct that can only be described as contemptible—”

“Order!” shouted the Speaker, as the usual low grumbling increased in volume.  “Perhaps, given the early stage of this affair, the Honourable lady could limit herself to a question to the Prime Minister, rather than a damning indictment?”

Sutherland smirked.

“Thank you, Mr Speaker,” said Miss French, in a flat tone.  “Given the rumours of misconduct, rumours which I attempted very recently to bring to the Prime Minister’s attention, what steps is the Government taking to ensure that the directors are held to account for their actions?”

Sutherland wanted to grind his teeth.  He stood up, gripping the edge of the despatch box to stop his fingers from drumming on it in irritation, and fixed Miss French with a glare which she returned with interest.

“I admire the Honourable lady’s tenacity,” he said dryly.  “I’d like her to rest assured that the Government is not currently in need of her guidance in this matter.  Investigations will be carried out as deemed appropriate by the relevant authorities, misconduct will be reported and acted upon where they see fit, and the Government will act in accordance with any advice received.  If the Honourable lady could remind herself that the company has only just entered liquidation and it’s possibly a little too early to be erecting the scaffold, I’d be _eternally_ grateful.”

A chorus of laughter rolled around the chamber, but he distinctly heard Miss French say “well, that’s bloody deflection, if ever I heard it.”

Her words needled him, but he stepped back from the despatch box, gathering his papers, a strange ringing in his ears that he recognised as growing frustration and anger.  The questions continued, but fortunately the Speaker only allowed another five minutes, so he didn’t have long to suffer. He could feel Miss French’s eyes on him, and when he happened to glance her way she was glowering.  The questions over, MPs began leaving for lunch, the next debate scheduled for an hour’s time, and he allowed the room to empty a little before marching from the chamber. Carrie fell into step beside him in the lobby, taking the papers from his hands and tossing her hair.

“Not a disaster, on the whole,” she said.  “I’ve arranged a press conference outside Number 10.  The Minister’s provided a brief update which we can go over in the car.”

“Fine.”

“Prime Minister!”

Sutherland let his head roll back with a rumbling groan at the sound of a familiar voice.

“Just keep fucking walking,” he muttered, and Carrie looked as though she wanted to burst into laughter.

“Prime Minister!”   _Tap-tap-tap-tap_ went her heels as she trotted after him.  “If you have a moment?”

He caught a flash of chestnut hair and a whiff of her perfume as she drew up alongside.  Sutherland sighed.

“Whatever it is, Miss French, you have precisely ten seconds to spit it out,” he said curtly.  “I’m a little busy right now.”

“Fine, then I’ll keep it brief,” she said bluntly.  “I want in on the Wolsingham Committee.”

“The—”  Sutherland stared at her.  “There isn’t a bloody Wolsingham Committee!”

“Oh, so you’re telling me there’s gonna be no public enquiry coming out of this?” she said flatly. “No House Select Committee, no Government scrutiny whatsoever?  Pull the other one, it’s got bloody bells on!”

Sutherland was in parts outraged and impressed by her bravery.

“Miss French, I thought we already discussed your prior dealings with this company and decided that those disqualified you from having any part in Government consideration of its actions.”

“Well, I’d suggest to you that things have changed since the firm went down the toilet and took a bunch of innocent people with it, wouldn’t you agree?” she said tartly.  “At least put me forward for consideration and let someone else who isn’t blinded by prejudice decide whether I’m capable of acting impartially.”

Sutherland stopped abruptly, Miss French taking another step before turning to face him with fire in her eyes. Carrie had stepped back from them, clutching his briefcase to her chest, her eyes flicking between them avidly. He felt his jaw clench in outrage at Miss French’s thinly-veiled accusation.

“Are you saying I’m prejudiced?” he demanded.  “Based on what? My reluctance to be accused of a rigged fucking system?”

“Right…” she drawled, nodding.  “Because it’s not like _that_ exists in public office.  Perish the thought. Thank goodness the Government is here to preserve public trust...”

“I don’t like your tone, Miss French,” he growled.

“I speak as I find,” she said coldly.  “You know as well as I do that this is an unmitigated disaster and it’s only gonna get worse!  But maybe you don’t care about the little people who get hurt, hmm? I imagine being Prime Minister, stuck down here at Number 10, it’s easy to get out of touch.”

Sutherland prided himself in his self-control, something he had fought against his naturally volatile nature to address and improve over the years.  It was a mark of how far he had come that he hadn’t cursed anyone out on the floor of the House, in his opinion, but he was tired, and stressed, and so he did something that, looking back later that day, he would not be proud of.  He lost his temper.

“Don’t you _dare_ tell me I’m out of fucking touch and don’t fucking care!” he spat, taking a step forward and wagging an admonitory finger at her.  “When I was working my arse off campaigning for equal pay you were probably at fucking _pony club_!”

“And what if I was?” she demanded, hands on hips.  “Just because my parents had money, it doesn’t invalidate what I want to do as a public servant!  And - and it doesn’t mean I can’t recognise injustice when it happens to others!”

He growled under his breath, turning away and heading for the entrance, but she followed him relentlessly, getting in front of him again and glaring at him.

“Okay, so I don’t have as many years of service under my belt as you,” she said.  “But then I _am_ somewhat younger than you _sir_ , and I’ve spent most of my life in school and in university!  During which time I also volunteered for Citizens Advice and a local women’s refuge!  Is that enough for you? Have I earned whatever credentials you think I’m missing? Or is it the fact that I’m challenging you that you don’t like?”

“Oh, so I’m a fucking misogynist again, am I?” he snapped, drawing to a halt again.  “Take a look at my staff, Miss French! Take a look at all the women in senior positions in this Government and in Number 10 and tell me I’m a sexist pig, I fucking dare you!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, raising an eyebrow.  “I don’t think you have a problem with women, sir, I think you have a problem with me specifically.”

Sutherland tried to keep his rage internal, swallowing down the waspish retort that had risen in his throat like bile.  He even managed a tiny, bitter smile.

“If you have some sort of complaint about my behaviour, you know the proper channels to go through,” he said, as pleasantly as he could.  “As regards your request about involvement in future committees, put it in writing and my PPS will look it over. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I actually have to go and do some fucking work. Perhaps you’d be good enough to do the same.”

He stepped past her, quickening his pace, and Carrie trotted at his side, shooting him an amused look as they made their way out into the sunshine.  He could still feel Miss French’s eyes on his back, as though he had a target painted there. It made his shoulder blades itch. He was inwardly seething as he walked to the car, and Carrie seemed to sense it, calmly drawing his attention to the briefing paper she had mentioned.  It was a useful distraction, and by the time he reached the podium that had been placed outside Number 10, he was as cool and collected as he could be. The press conference went well, and when the door of Number 10 was closed on the world, he heaved a sigh, handing his coat and jacket to Alice, who winked at him and promised to bring him some tea.

Sutherland stomped into his office, followed by Carrie, who was smirking slightly, as though she was thinking of a joke she wasn’t about to share.  Slumping into his chair, he snatched up a folder of papers that Alice had left on the desk. Reports with one-page briefings attached made up the bulk of it, and he growled under his breath as he saw what he suspected would be the first of many letters from the Honourable Member for Avonleigh, her complaints about the alleged mismanagement of Wolsingham there in black and white. Snatching up the letter, he shook it at Carrie, who slouched in the chair opposite with a grin still on her face.

“And now I can’t escape the woman even here!” he complained, waving the letter.  “Look! She’s gonna drive me up the bloody wall!”

“Well, if you let her set the tone of your encounters, that’s certainly true.”

“I don’t understand why we manage to push each other’s buttons so bloody much,” he added.  “I never had this problem with her predecessor.”

“That’s because he was _hopeless_ ,” she reminded him.  “Spent most of PMQs snoring on the benches, as I recall.”

That was true, but he grumbled under his breath anyway.

“You think she gets off on making me look an idiot?”

“I think you’re capable of doing that all by yourself,” she said, and he sent her a flat look, which made her sigh and roll her eyes.

“I think she gets off on the challenge,” she said.  “I’d say that you’re fairly evenly matched, on the whole.  Both very intelligent, both very passionate, just with slightly different ways of getting your point across.”

“As in I sound as though I’m shouting outside the factory gates and she sounds like a bloody orator?” he muttered.  “I’m well aware.”

“Well, you never know.”  She winked at him. “Maybe she likes a bit of rough.”

“I’ll give her a bit of bloody rough,” he growled.

“I expect that’s what she’s hoping,” she said absently, flipping through her papers.  “We won’t say _which_ bit, of course.”

“Remind me why I haven’t fired you?” he demanded, slapping the letter down, and she arched a brow at him.

“Because you think it’s important that people be able to speak truth to power, and you know I’ll always tell you the truth,” she said airily.  “Even if I take the piss while doing it.”

He grumbled at that.  It was accurate, of course.

“What am I gonna do about her?” he asked, and there was a hint of pleading in his voice.  Carrie pursed her lips, a thoughtful look on her face.

“Well,” she said.  “You could try sleeping with her.”

_“Carrie!”_

“I’m serious!” she protested.  “It’s obvious that you want to.  It’s even more obvious that _she_ wants to.  Why am I the only one saying it?  You know, apart from the rest of the Cabinet, most of the Commons, Special Branch, the tabloid press...”

“That would be a total abuse of power and you know it!”

“Oh, please!”  She sniffed in derision.  “She’s not some gullible young intern gawping at you in awe.  She’s a very intelligent, very competent adult. And she’s more than capable of handing your delightful arse to you.”

“She’s half my bloody age!” he said, ignoring the comment about his arse.

“Right, because that’s a _total_ barrier to mutual lust…”

“For fuck’s sake...”

“You know I’m right.”

“I know we can barely stay civil when we have a conversation,” he said.  “That’s what I know.”

“Yes, you’re both brimming over with passion,” she said absently.  “Go burn some of it off would you? Preferably together. Preferably naked.”

“No, I’ve got a better idea.”

“I very much doubt it,” she remarked, and then sighed again as she looked up.  “Very well. What’s your brilliant plan?”

“Easy,” he said.  “I’m gonna give her something to do.”

* * *

Sutherland took a sip of whisky, scribbling a note on the report in front of him.  The clock on the wall ticked its slow rhythm; it was approaching nine o’clock and most of the staff had left for the day.  Even Arthur had wandered out of the room and left him alone. He was still expecting a visitor, though. The business of Government continued.

He finished reading the report, added a final comment, and set it aside just as the clock chimed nine.  Sitting back, he took another sip of whisky, hearing voices outside the door. He took another sip, draining the glass. It appeared his visitor had arrived. A swift knock, and the door opened, Carrie peering around it.

“Miss French to see you, sir,” she said, in a perfectly appropriate tone, which she spoiled entirely by winking at him.  “I was about to get off, but if you want me to stay…”

“That won’t be necessary,” he said, in a very even tone.  “I daresay Miss French won’t be here long. Thank you, Carrie.”

She nodded, disappearing, and Miss French took her place, black skirt and white shirt beneath a neat black jacket, her feet in some of those impossibly high shoes.  She nodded to him cautiously.

“Prime Minister.”

“Well, come in and sit down,” he said impatiently.

She closed the door behind her, crossing to the chair in front of his desk and taking a seat.  He sat back a little, tapping his pen against the papers in front of him as he looked at her, and Miss French pursed her lips.

“Am I to be reprimanded?” she asked lightly, and he raised a brow.

“For what?”

“For chewing you out in the corridors of power,” she said dryly.  “For not knowing my place, whatever.”

He rolled the pen between thumb and forefinger, raising a brow.

“You think I brought you here to chastise you, is that it?”

A slight blush bloomed in her cheeks, and he wondered what she was thinking.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.  “Although I guess if you were going to do something, it would have been earlier, right?”

He allowed himself a tiny smile.

“Miss French, if you think that was the worst thing that’s ever been said to me in the Houses of Parliament, you’re very much mistaken.”

“Guess I’ll need to try harder.”

She smiled a little, to take the edge off, and he grinned, jerking his head towards the cabinet.

“Would you like a drink?”

“Are we celebrating something?”

“No,” he said tersely.  “But I’m gonna pour myself one, and I’m being fucking polite.  D’you want one or not?”

She eyed him, lips pursed.

“Okay.”

He got up, taking his empty glass to the cabinet and taking out another.

“Whisky?”

“Thank you.”

He poured two glasses, turning with them in his hands.  Miss French had stood up, and perched herself on the edge of his desk again, knees crossed, one foot bouncing a little as she watched him.  The light gleamed on her curls, shining waves of mahogany resting on her shoulders. He wondered if it was as soft as it looked.

“No Arthur this evening?” she asked.  He handed her a drink, trying not to glance at her perfect legs.

“He wandered off an hour ago.  I should think he’s already gone to curl up on the bed.”

“Hmm.”  She took a sip, still watching him.  “Lucky Arthur.”

Her eyes held his, and he licked his lips, his throat suddenly dry.  He wanted to say something, but the words seemed to catch in his throat.  He took a sip of his drink as he tried to collect his thoughts, and Miss French came to his rescue by speaking first.

“Do you always work so late?”

“Not always,” he said, and shrugged.  “Sometimes later.”

She smiled a little.

“Long days, then,” she said.  “Longer nights, perhaps.”

She took another sip, eyes fixed on his, and he licked his lips again.  He was nervous, he realised, and it was an unfamiliar feeling, if not entirely unpleasant.

“Country doesn’t run itself, unfortunately,” he added.  “There’s a reason every Prime Minister rapidly goes grey.”

“That’s not a bad thing,” she said.  “You look very distinguished.”

“That’s a kind way of saying knackered.”

She grinned at that.

“Well, you know what they say about all work and no play...”

“I know,” he sighed.  “Ridiculously long work days and no personal life to speak of.  I’m sure I must seem very boring to you.”

“Quite the contrary.”  She tilted her head a little, looking him over.  “I’m sure you can be very interesting indeed when it suits you.”

Her gaze was weighing, measuring, as though she was peeling off his clothing layer by layer to reveal the true man beneath.  It was a little unnerving.

“I hope you find time for - leisure,” he said awkwardly, and her lips pursed, her eyes sparkling.

“I can keep myself amused.”

Her gaze was making his skin tingle, and he began pacing, head turned away from her a little.  The silence between them stretched and grew, making his heart thump and his breath quicken. He heard her shift a little on the desk, the soft swish of smooth skin against skin as she uncrossed her legs.  The sound made his breath catch, and he took a sip of whisky to cover it.

“Why am I here, sir?” she asked.

Her voice was calm, her tone mellow.  He could feel her eyes on him, tracing a line of heat down his spine and making him shudder.  Turning to face her, he took a deep breath, raising his glass.

“I thought perhaps we could clear the air,” he said.

Miss French sucked her teeth, looking thoughtful, and nodded as she crossed her legs again.

“Alright,” she said.  “That seems like something two mature adults would do, doesn’t it?”

“I was thinking we might have a calm and rational discussion,” he added.  “No one raising their voice, yelling or swearing.”

“By no one, I take it you mean you.”

Sutherland grimaced.

“I shouldn’t have lost my temper with you earlier,” he admitted.  “I’m not proud of it, and I’d like to think it won’t happen again.”

“Oh, I should think it’s almost inevitable,” she said.  “But is that a bad thing? To give one’s passion free rein?”

She had raised her chin a little, one dark brow arching, lips a little pursed, and for a brief, distracting moment he wondered what other passions she had.  How else she might give in to them. He shook his head, dispelling the images just starting to form, and stepped back on one foot, taking his weight on his heel as he looked her over.

“You and I appear to have an - antagonistic - relationship,” he remarked.

“Yes,” she said.  “I get on your tits, to use the vernacular.  You already told me that.”

She took a sip of her drink, eyes fixed on his, crossed leg swinging at the foot a little.  He could feel his breath quicken a little as she raised her head.

“If it makes you feel any better, you get on mine,” she added.

He was aware that his eyes had automatically dropped to her chest, where high, firm breasts pushed against her white shirt.  A brief image flashed into his mind, her shirt open, breasts bare as his hands gripped and squeezed, as his mouth and tongue sought hard pink nipples.  Swallowing hard and trying to ignore the sudden swelling of his cock in his pants, he dragged his eyes back up to meet hers. Miss French smiled a little, a slow curve of her berry-stained lips and a knowing glint in her eyes as her foot bounced a little quicker.

“Well, be that as it may,” he managed.  “I’m sure we can work together to get past it.”

“I’m sure we can,” she said.  “Is this an offer of peace, then?”

“It’s an offer of work.”

Her smile grew.

“That’s a start, I suppose.”

“I’ve had some preliminary reports out of Arendelle Town Council,” he began, desperately hoping his rising arousal would dissipate.  “Perhaps you’ve heard the stories circulating in the press?”

She looked curious.

“I’ve heard as much as everyone else, I suspect.”

“Turns out there’s truth in them.”

“How much truth?” she asked.

“That’s what we need to find out,” he said, pacing again.  “I’m convening a committee to investigate potential large-scale negligence on the part of social services and the police.  I understand that you have a particular interest in women’s safety and child protection, so I’d like you to be part of it.”

A smile was already spreading across her face, her eyes widening.

“It’ll mean spending a lot of time in the constituency itself,” he added.  “I’m afraid that will mean reduced time in your own constituency, and in Parliament, but I want first-hand accounts from those involved before any hearings are chaired.”

“An unusual job for an MP,” she observed.

“Well, I want someone I can trust to oversee the investigations,” he said.  “Should be a good opportunity for you, and I have every confidence that you’ll do a first-rate job.”

“Thank you for your support, Prime Minister.”  Her tone was dry, and he turned to face her again, a frown already drawing his brows down.

“Is there something wrong with my offer?” he asked.

“Not at all,” she said blandly.  “I’m sure this long-distance placement absolutely needs my feet on the ground in Arendelle and couldn’t possibly be done remotely.”

“I realise it’s a little unorthodox,” he said.  “But I feel it’s the right choice.”

“Is it?”  She pursed her lips.  “Because it seems like a good way to keep me out of your sight for a considerable time.  Getting me off your tits, as it were.”

“It’s a job that needs doing!” he insisted.  “I thought you’d welcome it! I never thought that by offering it up I’d be accused of - of - what _is_ it I’m being accused of, anyway?”

“I’m not sure,” she said, looking irritated.  “I think we could work well together, but I get the impression you don’t like me too much.”

“Really?” He chuckled hollowly, taking a sip of his drink. “And here you’ve gone out of your way to endear yourself to me.  Can you imagine…”

“Oh, I’m well aware I can be a pushy pain in the arse,” she said impatiently.  “That’s how I got here. That’s how _all_ of us got here, isn’t it?”

He supposed that was true.

“It’s just that you seem to have some difficulty being around me at times, like - like you find me repulsive or something,” she went on.  “Am I repulsive?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” he snapped.  “You’re bloody gorgeous, and—”

He clamped his mouth shut, swallowing what he had been about to say, but Miss French smiled, looking deeply satisfied.

“Well,” she said.  “So it isn’t that. How interesting.”

She picked up her drink, still smirking, and took a sip.  Silence had fallen, a strange, heavy atmosphere making his skin tingle.  He took a drink to give himself something to do, his mind working overdrive as he tried to think of a way to take back what he had said without looking like a total idiot, or worse, a total creep.  Miss French was watching him over the rim of her glass, eyes dark beneath thick lashes, and she lowered the glass, the tip of her tongue sweeping across her lips. She set down her drink on the desk, bracing herself on the palms of her hands as she raised her chin.

“I’m sorry,” he said, having regained the power of speech.  “That was inappropriate. I never meant to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t,” she said abruptly.  “It’s actually quite reassuring.”

“Reassuring?”

“Well, you’ve admitted you find me attractive,” she said.  “I was beginning to think all the hints I dropped were a waste of time.”

Sutherland blinked.

“Hints?”

Miss French tossed her dark curls, licking her lips as she uncrossed her legs.

“Perhaps I was being too subtle,” she said.

Her voice had lowered a little, grown smoky, sultry.  It made desire tug at him, a low-down pull in his groin as his cock twitched.  He took a drink to cover it, his eyes not leaving hers.

“Miss French—”

“You can call me Belle,” she interrupted.

He spoke her name in a whisper, the word ghosting over his lips, flowing from his mouth into the air, as though he were casting a spell, and her smile flickered into life again.

“We’re two adults,” she said.  “Two adults who had the ambition to get where we are and who know their own worth.  I think we can be honest with one another, don’t you?”

“I would hope so.”

“Good.”  She reached out, taking the glass from his hand and setting it next to hers.  Her eyes met his again, her lips moist from the touch of her tongue. “So. I find you attractive, you find me attractive.  It’s out in the open, no more awkwardness required. Are you going to kiss me?”

He was beginning to think this was all a strange and vivid dream, and bit the inside of his cheek to prove otherwise.

“Do you want me to?”

Belle rolled her eyes.

“ _Definitely_ too subtle,” she sighed.  “Yes, I want you to. But perhaps you should make sure we’re not disturbed first.”

His breath had quickened, his heart thumping and a high ringing in his ears as the clock on the wall ticked away, and he walked over to the door in a trance.  Opening it up, he glanced outside, and caught the eye of the nearest Special Branch officer.

“Absolutely no visitors for the next half hour,” he said.  “Unless someone starts a fucking war, I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Understood, sir,” said the man, his face perfectly clear of any expression.

Sutherland nodded.

“And - and even if someone  _does_ start a fucking war,” he added, “knock first, got it?”

“Understood, sir.”

Sutherland grimaced as he shut the door.  He hadn’t been kidding when he said they knew how to keep their mouths shut.  Bloody good job. He turned around, heart still thudding in his chest as he walked back to the desk.

“They won’t let anyone in,” he said, his voice echoing strangely in his ears.

“Good.”

Belle raised her chin a little, shaking back dark, shining curls as he stepped closer, and he reached out to put his hands on her knees.  Her skin was cool and smooth as silk, and his hands spread out and slowly pushed upwards, the fine wool of her skirt bunching and rising, exposing long, pale thighs.  Fingers slipped down between her legs, slowly pulling them apart, and he stepped closer, in between her knees. Belle’s breath was coming faster, her chest heaving, and he raised his eyes to hers as he shifted closer, their noses almost touching.  He could feel her cool breath against his lips, and for a moment he paused, gazing into wide blue eyes as his desire flared upwards, raging through him like fire ready to burst from his mouth, until he bent his head and captured her lips with his.

She opened for him, her tongue slipping into his mouth as she inhaled sharply, fingers sliding in through the short strands of his hair and making him shudder with pleasure.  Belle let out a tiny moan as his tongue stroked hers, and he answered her with a deep, rumbling groan at the sweet taste of her. His fingers flicked open the button of her jacket, hands dropping to cup her breasts and squeeze before sliding down and around to grasp her rear and tug her towards him.  Her knees rose up, legs wrapping around him, thighs gripping his hips as he pressed up against her, his cock already hard.

Her hands slid from his hair, over his shoulders, raking his back through the jacket, and he deepened the kiss, his hands squeezing her as he ground against her.  The feel of it sent bursts of pleasure through him, desire that had lain dormant for what seemed like years surging through his body. He wanted to feel every bit of her, to slide a hand between her legs and push his fingers deep inside her, to tug aside her underwear and bury his cock in her and fuck her hard.  The kiss grew rough and messy, and he pulled back a little, breathing hard, catching her gaze for the briefest of moments before he lifted his hands to sink into her hair and kissed her again.

Her arms had disappeared from around him, and she shrugged off the jacket, letting it drop onto his desk. Desperate fingers clawed at the knot of his tie, working it open and dragging it from his throat, then dropped to his shirt, tugging at buttons and flicking them open.  He worked on her own shirt, breaking the kiss to press his forehead to hers so that he could see what his shaking hands were doing. Buttons sprung open, revealing the pale mounds of her breasts cupped by white lace.  She shrugged out of the shirt, sending it to join her jacket, and he slipped his thumbs beneath the straps of her bra, tugging it down her arms, the cups falling down to reveal firm breasts with taut pink nipples. She was beautiful.  She was perfect. And she was half-naked on his desk.

He bent his head to her, sucking a nipple in between his lips, and Belle arched her back with a moan, fingernails scoring his scalp and making him growl.  Her skin tasted very faintly of vanilla lotion and salt, and he sucked at her, tongue scraping over the peak of her nipple. He wanted to taste all of her, to spread her out on his bed and take his time uncovering every inch of that milky skin, to slip his tongue into the heat and wetness between her legs and lick her to a screaming climax and suck the cum from her. But he was hard and desperate and it had been too bloody long for niceties. Perhaps she’d come up with him. After.

His hands shifted, pushing beneath her skirt again, bunching it up around her waist as his fingers sought the waistband of her underwear.  He tugged it down, Belle shifting to help him get it off, and he let her breast slip from his mouth, stepping back from her and drawing the little thong down her thighs to fall off at her feet. Belle kicked off her shoes, leaning back on the desk a little, her chest heaving as her eyes met his, heat in her gaze.

“Touch me!” she whispered.

He kissed her again, one arm going around her waist and tugging her closer as he reached between her legs, touching hot, wet flesh.  She was soft as silk, slippery with her juices, and he groaned into her mouth as his fingers rubbed over her, feeling the tiny bud of her clit.  Belle moaned, fingers clutching at his shoulders, and he stroked her slowly, teasing her entrance with a finger before pushing inside. She pulled her mouth from his with a whining gasp, head rolling back, and he kissed down her neck, sucking at her skin as his finger pushed deep.  His thumb rubbed over her clit as he thrust, and Belle arched her back, hands stroking through his hair and sending shivers through him as she opened her legs a little wider.

“God, that’s good!” she breathed.  “So good!”

He bit down into her neck, making her let out a tiny cry, and added a second finger, thrusting in and out of her, his palm wet from her arousal.  His mouth found her ear, and he felt her shudder, a ripple of pleasure running through her. He could hear her ragged breathing, could feel her hips rocking as he pushed and slid and rubbed, the pad of his thumb flickering over slippery flesh.  Belle’s fingers had twisted in the short strands of his hair, her nose grazing his jawline as she put her mouth to his throat, and he let out a groan, feeling her soft, wet tongue stroke up his neck. She nipped at him, leaning back a little to gaze at him with a dark hunger before she lunged to kiss him again.

He inhaled deeply as his tongue pushed into her mouth, wrapping around hers, his fingers buried in her to the knuckles.  She kissed him hungrily, nails scraping his scalp, her thighs gripping his sides. A long, low moan made her break the kiss, taking panting breaths as she pressed her brow to his.  His cock was hard and straining in his pants, and he yearned to free it, to slide deep inside her and feel her all around him. Belle was letting out tiny moans, still rocking her hips in a steady rhythm, and he timed his thrusts to match, fingers rigid, thumb loose.  He could feel her body growing taut, her moans increasing in volume, and she let out a loud cry as she came.

He thought it was perhaps the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, her back arching and head rolling back, her dark curls shaking out behind her, gleaming in the light.  She let her hands drop from his hair, bracing on the desk beside her as she tried to catch her breath. Her chest was heaving, perfect breasts bouncing, her nipples dark from the pressure of his mouth and her pale skin marked with tiny pink patches.  He could feel her gripping him, slick with her cum, and her eyes flickered open as he slowly drew out his fingers. Her scent was everywhere, sweet musk that made him want to lie her down and devour her. He sucked her juices from his fingers, salt on his tongue, his own breathing ragged.

Belle opened heavy-lidded eyes, a slow smile curving her mouth.  Her lips were full and dark, glistening with saliva, and he watched as the tip of her tongue swept across them.  He dropped his hands to her hips, leaning in to press his brow against hers, to find a moment of stillness as they each let their breathing steady.  Belle let out a sigh, a shuddering, contented sound, breath cool against his lips, and reached up to stroke her fingers through his hair. Her nose brushed against his, and he felt the urge to kiss her again, to explore her sweet mouth with his tongue.

He cupped a breast, squeezing gently as he nudged at her nose with his, moving her head a little so that his lips could meet hers.  Belle moaned, opening her mouth, her tongue stroking, the kiss growing messy. His hands slipped down to her rear, tugging her against him, and he let out a rumbling groan as he rubbed against her, inwardly cursing the barrier of his suit pants between them.  Belle undulated, breasts pushing against his chest, thighs gripping him tightly, and his tongue swept across hers, his cock hard, his balls aching.

She pulled back with a wet, sucking sound as their lips parted, her chest heaving and her eyes dark with desire as her hands braced on the desk.

“Fuck me!” she whispered, and launched herself at him, slipping from the desk and pushing him down on the carpet.

He hit the floor with a grunt, a rush of air leaving his lungs and his head thumping against the thick carpet pile as Belle landed on his chest.  She pushed open his shirt and began kissing her way down, sucking at his nipples and making him groan with pleasure as jolts of sensation went through him.  It had been so long he had almost forgotten how good it could feel to have someone, to be with someone. Too long.

He reached up to stroke his fingers through her soft curls, enjoying the feel of her lips against his skin, and Belle let her tongue trail in circles as she made her way down over his belly.  Sutherland closed his eyes, hearing the thud of his pulse in his ears and the clink of his belt as she tugged at it. He smiled a little, feeling her hands get his pants open, and lifted his hips so that she could pull them down along with his underwear. Belle let out a hum of appreciation, and he opened one eye a crack to see her looking him over. And then she bent her head to draw her tongue up the length of his cock, and he lost the last shreds of anything that might have been called reason.

Belle took him in hand, lifting him up and taking him in between her lips before sucking him in deep, and he arched upwards with a long, low groan at the feel of her.  She sucked hard, moving with a slow rhythm, lips sliding up and down his length and making stars dance behind his eyes.

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ!” he gasped.

He felt her smile as her tongue stroked over the head, sending pulses of pleasure rippling through his body. Over and over it circled, the sensations building, making his body grow taut, his muscles straining.

 _“Belle!”_ he groaned.  “Oh God, _please_!”

She let him slip from her mouth, sliding up his body with a triumphant grin on her face, and he gasped for breath as she straddled him, hands bracing on his belly, his cock pressed against her wet heat.  Her skirt was still pushed up around her waist, the bra bunched around the waistband, and he watched as she unhooked it and tossed it aside. She was pressed against him, every movement a delicious agony, and he yearned to get inside her, to sink deep into her.  Belle took a deep breath, fixing her eyes on his, and smiled softly.

“Ready?” she asked, and he nodded.

He reached between them, taking himself in hand, using his other to stroke through her wet flesh, teasing, probing.  Belle moaned, shaking back her hair as his fingers found her entrance, and he slipped two inside her, pushing in up to the knuckles, making her moans grow louder.  She was hot and slippery-wet, soaking his fingers, so he drew them out, lining them up so that she could lift her hips a little and sink down onto him. He let out a low groan as she took him deep, scalding wet flesh closing up around him, a velvet glove surrounding him.

Belle stilled for a moment, breathing hard, hands splayed on his belly, and her eyes found his, her gaze intense.  She began to move, hips rocking gently, letting him slip out a little way before taking him back inside, and he pushed up into a sitting position, one arm snaking around her waist to hold her tight against him as he kissed her.  She clutched at his shoulders, her movements increasing, and he moved in time with her, thrusting upwards, pushing deep. The friction was incredible, the tug and pull of her flesh against his, and he reached up to cup her face, lips pushing hers open, tongue stroking inside.  Belle moaned into his mouth, the sound a frantic whimper, and he quickened the pace of his thrusts, hips bucking, their bodies rubbing together. Her nails dug into his shoulders, her body stiffening, and she pulled her mouth from his with a cry as she came, clenching around him, heat and wetness flooding over him.

He fell backwards with a gasp, back arching as he thrust up inside her, the sensations building inside him, a rising wave of bliss.  Belle was still moaning and jerking, and he slid his hands up her thighs to grasp her hips, holding her close against him as he thrust.  The wave surged, crashing through him, and he let out a loud groan of pleasure as he came, bright lights bursting behind his eyes, electricity coursing through his body as his cock spurted deep inside her.  It felt so good he wanted to burst out laughing, and he slumped against the carpet, every inch of his skin tingling.

For a moment there was no sound but for their own heavy breathing and Belle’s contented little moans, and he took several deep breaths to steady himself.  His heart was thudding hard in his chest, sweat beading on his upper lip, and he raised a shaking hand to run a palm over his face, inhaling the scent of Belle’s pleasure as he did so.  Belle let out a low giggle, leaning forwards a little as he opened his eyes.

“You see?” she murmured.  “We work _very_ well together.”

He chuckled at that, reaching up to kiss her before letting his head thump onto the carpet with a satisfied groan.  Belle leaned forward, folding her arms across his chest and resting her chin on them as she eyed the door.

“You realise Special Branch probably heard everything,” she said.

“Undoubtedly.”

“Does that bother you?”

“Probably less than it bothers them.”

She giggled, eyes sparkling, and pushed up on her hands a little, looking him over.

“Well, I think it’s safe to say our professional relationship is ruined,” she remarked.

“Given the dreadful state it was in, that can only be a good thing.”

She giggled again, and he reached up to push a stray curl of hair behind her ear.  A feeling of contentment was stealing over him, the heat and bliss of his orgasm mellowed into something pleasantly lazy.

“Do you want to come upstairs?” he asked, and she raised her head, pursing her lips.

“Upstairs?”

“The private apartments are very nice,” he said.  “And very private.”

“Hmm.”  She pursed her lips.  “Is that where Arthur’s curled up on the bed?”

“Well, I was thinking we could politely ask him to leave.”

She giggled.

“For awhile, at least,” she said.  “I don’t mind cats being on the bed.”

“Nor do I, as a rule,” he said.  “As long as there’s no other company, of course.”

“Are you asking me to stay the night?”

“Yes,” he said.  “Yes, that’s what I’m asking.”

“I’d have to leave first thing,” she said.  “Need to get home to feed my own cats.”

“I’ll have a car take you,” he offered.

“A very early start, then.”

“Not too early,” he said.  “We’ll have breakfast first.”

“Most important meal of the day.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he growled.  “I can think of a few other things I’d like to eat.”

Belle giggled again, fingers tracing patterns on his skin.

“And you’re hungry, are you?”

“Starving.”

She leaned in to kiss him again, lips pulling at his before she sat back.

“Harder to sneak me past the press pack in the daylight,” she observed.

“I don’t give a flying fuck,” he said.  “Will you stay?”

She eyed him for a moment, then smiled, a wide, beautiful smile that made his heart clench.

“Yes,” she whispered.  “Yes, I’ll stay as long as you like.”

She pushed up, mouth finding his, and he let his hands sink into her hair as he rolled her onto her back. _As long as I like?  That could be a very long time._


End file.
